comfort; a sin and a saint,
false hopes and warmth
between the sheets of cotton.
weaving my hands into the threads,
my hair binding feathers and freckles
to this tiny piece of satisfaction
amongst the twisted doubts of December.

episodes of expectations;
hollow danger diseases threaten my
humor, humanity, humility;
i am frightened that my future
will implode, that the earth is dying,
that my words are not good enough,
that i am not good enough.

so this comfort i am clinging to,
sinking my nails into, resting
my head upon,
is keeping me from moving forward,
but saving me from giving up;
my stagnant sanctuary of twenty-two.

dynamics of heartbreak
your distance, his proximity,
the repetition of releasing
hormones and horrors,
and honey-colored eyes,
and hope.

i enter the car and
he looks at me. kisses me
before we walk in, opens
the door, brushes my leg
under the table, butterflies
warm and sooth and scare.

my heart breaks when
it's supposed to be solid,
when i'm supposed to be
happy and whole and ******
and orgasming and screaming
and strong

my heart breaks when i am kissed,
when i tell my sister i love her,
when my dreams come true;
the edges are sharp in my chest;
i don't think it will ever not hurt
i don't think i will ever not be broken

i've been having a difficult time
deciphering fact from fiction and fiction from
dreams i had when i was a child,
the percolation of the cells
in my chest grow heavy, enormous,
even,
pushing into my throat these
cries for anything
but drowning, anything but
tornadoes all alone,
but awkward kisses and tear-stained
celestial sheets of cotton.
where is my passion? have they taken it all?
was all that blood i've shed a lie?
do i want to end up dead?
i thought intellectual stimulants
and forced photographs in front
of that fountain, again,
could be enough to elevate my senses
back to reality, but i have only
learned how to decorate the darkness,
to numb the throbbing thoughts,
to stuff full the leaking veins of
love and lust and lost breaths,
enough to get out of bed
and into his or his or his
because i remember this place
from a dream i had as a child
and it hurts, i hurt, you hurt,
i smile and ask for more

my lower extremities
are coated lightly with
minute shards of glass,
my upper body loose from
chardonnay and sun beams

the water between is only angry because distance is disdain is
disbelief; a family finds solace
in the crashes of sad summer skies
and squinty eyes

i am not happy i am not sad
i am only breathing in the ocean’s
cries for calm, for quiet,
for familiar drunken fights
for love

my sunburn buried deep
solemn claims of reality;
direction is only a force
the stars have put in motion
moons pull me in opposites
but i remain

the overground, the
boom-boom, boom-boom,
the repetitive rhythm
of youth, of you, of
your hands between my thighs,
of yellow-golden-brown
sun stains on the wall,
of yawns interrupted by kisses.
that train lulled me to sleep,
it opened my heart and
it broke me, silently,
into a saltwater version of truth;
where am i? what am i
supposed to be doing here?
why can't i see you?
i scream into my pillow
these rhetorical tortures
until my throat is numb and
my head feels like
that train;
boom-boom. boom-boom. boom-boom.

caramel kisses, sugar sweet
and dropped lullabies
humming in my ear
the promises of tomorrow,
the pain of today,
the perfection of the past.

i fell in love with you
and it felt like falling asleep,
fast, comfortable, warm,
gentle hands and cotton
candy hearts and
home, my home, in the crook of your neck.

my lemon drop love,
splattered across the walk
in front of new cross gate station,
dark chocolate dipped distance;
my body aches for more
of your honey eyes and gumdrop soul

rage simmers deep
in my stomach,
i swallow whole,
choking, tortured,
the words which
whisper violence
whisper courage
whisper shame

i'm floating through the halls,
my eyes glassed over, my heart
bleeding onto the floor
i don't have the energy
to mop up the red rage
resist repair
resist healing
resist righteousness

there is poison
sprouting from the ground
chemicals have turned
unhuman, unharmonious,
my fingers knives of solitude
breathing life
breathing death
breathing glass